How to Moon a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  The sign hanging over the outside knob fluttered slightly as I pushed the door shut behind me. Catching a breeze, the sign flapped upward and flipped back against the glass, revealing a small plaque affixed to the door’s exterior framing. The printing on the plaque listed the regular hours for the museum—which was closed on Tuesdays.

  ALTHOUGH IT HAD been extensively renovated over the years, the Larkin House still retained the same basic floor plan as the original adobe. What had once been a breezeway running through the center of the first floor was now a fully enclosed hallway that connected the front and back portions of the house.

  Standing in this central hallway, just behind the entrance to the front parlor, Frank Napis stroked his fake mustache as he heard the front door creak open, tentatively at first, then, after a long moment, with a second squeaking shove that indicated a fully committed entrance. Tentative footsteps trod across the ancient wooden floorboards as someone stepped inside and began to look around.

  Through the reflection of a mirror posted at the front end of the hall, Napis watched as Oscar’s niece began her search of the sitting room.

  I MADE MY way slowly around the parlor, carefully studying the details, my eyes peeled for any reference to the Bear Flag Revolt.

  The room was tastefully done, if a bit ragged around the edges. A couple of frumpy lamps, a few tottering end tables, and several worn throw rugs furnished the space. Outlets on the wall indicated the house had been wired for electricity. Several generations of Larkins, I suspected, had lived in the adobe, each one layering on its own renovations and personalizations.

  I scanned the room, honing in on the pictures hanging from the walls, which seemed the most likely to have a connection to the 1846 time frame. My eyes swept from frame to frame, finally stopping at a small, dusty portrait propped up against a window seat near the front of the room.

  The boyish face hiding behind the wild curly nest of an unkempt beard was instantly familiar. I’d stared at another version of the same man in the display area at Sutter’s Fort. I bent over to look more closely at the picture of Captain John C. Frémont.

  The sunlight streamed in through the window, causing a glare on the picture’s protective glass covering, so I picked it up to get a better view. As I brought the frame closer to my face, my fingers pressed against its loose cardboard backing, and the brackets holding it together began to slip. I had to juggle the frame to keep the glass cover from dropping to the floor. Gathering the pieces on my lap, I sat on the window seat to fit them back together.

  “My luck, this is when the curator will walk in,” I murmured to myself.

  Just then, there was a creaking shift of the floorboards, followed by a jarringly familiar voice. “I see you’ve taken an interest in Captain Frémont.”

  I looked up to find a man standing in the doorway leading from the parlor to the interior of the house. He wore a familiar linen suit, rumpled black bow tie, and ankle-high lace-up boots.

  “Oh, ah, hello,” I stuttered, my cheeks blushing at the disassembled picture frame in my lap. “I hope you don’t mind, but I let myself in.”

  I set the pieces of the picture on the window seat, stood up, and took a step toward him. “We haven’t formally met,” I said, holding my hand out. “My name is—”

  “Haven’t we?” he cut in. There was an odd gleam in his eyes.

  The man’s upper lip twitched, causing his mustache to vibrate. Something in the movement struck a panicked chord in my memory. I hadn’t picked up on it during his stage performances, but now, standing face to face, I was starting to feel a wary premonition creeping up my spine . . .

  “Clement Samuels,” he said, gripping my hand as he cleared his voice. The thin lips behind the mustache formed a disconcerting smile. “I’ve seen you in my audiences, haven’t I? Weren’t you at the Nevada Theatre?”

  Chapter 57

  A MUCH-NEEDED BUCKET OF FRIED CHICKEN

  MONTY PUSHED HIS bike along Columbus Avenue, tired, weary, and dejected. After a long wait by the side of the road at the east entrance to Golden Gate Park, he’d given up hope that Sam was coming back to pick him up.

  It had been a long ride home for the aspiring mayor of San Francisco. Several steep hills had impeded his progress, and the chain had fallen off his gear shaft, complicating his navigations through the city’s heavy traffic. What’s more, he couldn’t stop worrying about where that crazy ex-janitor had run off with his precious van.

  Monty stopped at a curb to wipe a layer of sweat from his forehead. He looked down at what had been his last clean cycling shirt. It was now smeared with grease from his attempts to fix the chain. Finally, he had to confess, he was ready to give up on the cycling-themed photo op. It was time to admit defeat and move on. He’d sit down with the Life Coach later in the week to plot out another approach.

  But first, he thought as a luscious fried chicken scent wafted out of a newly opened North Beach bistro, it was time to get some nourishment.

  AN HOUR LATER, Monty arrived at the doorstep to his Jackson Square studio, still uncomfortably grimy and sweaty, but feeling much more optimistic about life after having eaten nearly half a bucket of fried chicken. He paused, licked his fingers, and glanced across the street at the Green Vase storefront.

  Aha, he thought with a flash of inspiration. There was an audience who would listen to his woes.

  He crossed the street, leaned his bike against the red brick edifice, and peeked through the showroom windows.

  “Halloo!” he called out, cupping his hands against the glass. As his voice echoed through the building, the racing patter of padded footsteps thundered across the second floor kitchen, thumped rapidly down the steps at the back of the building, and skidded at top speed across the showroom floor. A moment later, Rupert threw himself against the front door’s glass panels, wheezing and huffing with his highest level of sniffing power. Every fiber of his being squealed with delight at the smell emanating from Monty’s paper bucket.

  Grinning, Monty fished a key out of a small pocket in his bike shorts and slid it into the lock. Isabella crossed the showroom in a far more dignified fashion and watched with disapproval as he opened the front door.

  “If she didn’t want me in here, she’d change the locks,” Monty replied defensively to Isabella’s accusing glare. He peeled off a chunk of chicken for Rupert, who was bouncing up and down, vainly trying to reach the bottom of the bucket. “Here you go, mate.”

  Isabella leapt onto the cashier counter, her tail swishing testily back and forth.

  “Peace offering?” Monty suggested, holding out a piece of chicken. Isabella sniffed disdainfully, but edged her nose toward his hand.

  Monty left the morsel on the counter for Isabella; then he swaggered across the showroom to the dental recliner. After dropping onto its worn leather cushions, he pulled the recline lever and extended the footrest.

  “That’s much better,” he said with a sigh. Rupert hopped on his lap and immediately stuck his head into the bucket of chicken.

  “Hey, hey,” Monty protested. “That’s not all for you!” He reached over to the display case and picked up the handles of the tooth extractor. Playfully, he aimed the pinchers at the back end of the furry white body snorkeling inside the bucket.

  “And what do we have here?” he asked, dropping the pinchers onto the floor as he noticed the trapdoor to the basement lying open. “Is your person down there?”

  He glanced at Rupert, whose head was still firmly planted inside the bucket. Then he looked questioningly at Isabella.

  “Wa-ow wa-ow,” she replied, her voice garbled by a mouthful of chicken.

  Monty eased off the recliner, leaving Rupert to the bucket, and bent down to look into the hatch.

  “Hall-oo,” he called out again, this time aiming his voice at the dark hole, but there was no response.

  “Hmnh,” he mused. He started down the steps, the soles of his cycling shoes clapping loudly on the loose slats.

  Wh
en he reached the basement’s concrete floor, he tugged a gray moth-eaten string to turn on the single bare lightbulb mounted to the ceiling. The bulb provided little additional lighting, but it was sufficient to illuminate the wide empty place behind the stairs. A sweeping pattern in the otherwise dust-covered floor indicated that a large object had been pushed to the foot of the stairs and, presumably, carried up to the showroom.

  After staring at the bare spot on the floor, Monty called up to the cats in the showroom, “Hey, what happened to the kangaroo?”

  Chapter 58

  THE LEIDESDORFF CONNECTION

  THE MAN IN the rumpled linen suit dropped my trembling hand.

  “Yes, I’m sure I remember you from my previous performances,” he said slowly as I stared at his white mustache and flyaway eyebrows.

  Despite his matching costume, I was beginning to doubt this was the same Clem I had seen in Nevada City and at Sutter’s Fort.

  He raised a stubby finger into the air near my face. “But—I think you’re still missing the last act. Please, let me finish the story for you.”

  Gulping nervously, I glanced sideways at the door to the courtyard, several feet to my left. The linen-clad man hovered a mere arm’s length to my right.

  “After his role in the Bear Flag Revolt,” he said dismissively, “Captain Frémont becomes far less interesting—to you and me anyway.”

  “Less interesting?” I repeated tensely as I tried to ease toward the door. “Why do you say that?”

  The Clem impersonator let out an indifferent sfit of air. “A few months after taking command of the Osos in Sonoma, Frémont found himself caught in a political tug-ofwar between the U.S. Army’s General Kearney and the U.S. Navy’s Commodore Stockton. It would take Washington several months to catch up with the events on the ground in California. In the absence of a clear chain of command, the first two American military leaders on the scene fought with each other as much as with the Mexican resurgence in the south. In the end, Frémont managed to get himself court-martialed for disobeying orders. Despite a subsequent presidential pardon, his reputation and motives—particularly regarding his role in precipitating the Bear Flag Revolt—would be forever questioned.”

  The man paused and stroked his hands across the front of his chest. “But, as I said before, that aspect of the story is of little interest to us.” He leaned toward me, his mustache twitching unnaturally. “Frémont’s fate wasn’t the focus of your uncle’s investigations.”

  I felt myself freeze with the confirmation of my suspicions. This was not the Clem who had been parading around as Mark Twain in Nevada City and Sutter’s Fort. This was . . . Frank Napis.

  “No,” he continued smoothly, as if he hadn’t noticed my tightening expression. “Oscar couldn’t have cared less about Frémont’s later political implosion. It was the Bear Flag your uncle was after.”

  Napis paused and licked his lips. “The flag that was destroyed in the 1906 earthquake wasn’t the original flag. It was a replacement. In the weeks immediately following the Sonoma revolt, someone made a switch.”

  I felt a bead of perspiration break out across my forehead as Napis pumped his fake eyebrows at me.

  “Let’s review, shall we? Paul Revere’s grandson rode out to Sonoma to fetch the rebels’ flag and replace it with Old Glory. When he returned to Yerba Buena with the Bear Flag, Captain Montgomery noticed something odd about the design. The flag’s emblem had been modified; it no longer resembled a bear. Yes, the creature was brown and standing upright on its hindquarters. But stretching out from its posterior was a long ground-sweeping attachment—a tail.”

  I thought back to the sketch in my notebook and Oscar’s notation next to the DeVoto text:

  Local Indians, passing through Sonoma after the revolt, ridiculed the animal on the flag, calling it a pig or a stoat.

  And suddenly it became clear to me. The creature on the flag that the local Indians had laughed at and tried to describe as an upright pig or weasel had instead been a . . .

  “That’s right,” Napis said as if reading my mind. “A kangaroo.”

  I shook my head, curious despite my growing fear of being trapped in a room with my uncle’s arch nemesis. I was still missing the last piece of the puzzle.

  “But, the Bear Flag, the state flag of California . . . it’s clearly a bear.”

  Napis’s dark eyes flickered. “The Osos began to have misgivings about Frémont when he showed up at their Sonoma camp, denied any responsibility for instigating their revolt, and assumed leadership of their group.”

  The coarse hairs of Napis’s mustache again twitched from the influence of an involuntary facial tic. “One of the Osos modified the flag’s bear—a little nineteenth-century graffiti, if you will. It was a silent statement of rebuttal.

  “When the flag arrived in Yerba Buena, someone there realized the significance of the kangaroo image and what it might mean for the other American officials in Northern California if Frémont’s flagrant violation of the White House’s orders were discovered. The Vice-Consul had been powerless to stop Frémont from starting the revolt, but he and Larkin feared they would be seen as complicit.”

  I found myself filling the name in almost automatically. “William Leidesdorff. He stole the original flag? But . . . why?”

  Napis stepped behind me and scooped up the picture frame from the window seat.

  “Look on the back of Frémont’s picture,” he said softly as he handed me the frame so that the already-loose cardboard backing faced upward.

  My hands shaking, I lifted the backing to reveal the backside of the picture inside. With a halting voice, I began to read the charcoal pencil handwriting that creased the delicate paper.

  “He bounces from one camp to the next, without plan or predictability, oblivious to the destruction he leaves in his wake, like the long thick appendage of his namesake. Sutter was the first to coin the nickname, but we all use it now. Pathfinder? That doesn’t do the troublesome scamp justice. No, those of us who have come to know Captain Frémont call him by another name. We call him . . .”

  Hesitating, I bit down on my lip.

  Napis finished the caption for me. “They called him ‘the Kangaroo.’”

  And in that moment, I knew what Frank Napis was after. I knew where my uncle had hidden the original Bear Flag.

  “I’ve got to go,” I murmured under my breath as I dropped the Frémont picture on the window seat.

  Still staring at Napis, I began to shuffle backwards. My hand reached behind my back for the door. As my fingers closed in around the handle, I pulled it open, anticipating the squeal of the hinges.

  Napis didn’t move to stop me. His face bore a strangely satisfied smile.

  I never saw the man crouched outside in the courtyard. By the time I heard the creak of wood from his step across the threshold, it was too late.

  A light thunk, expertly delivered, pounded against the back of my head. As the floor rushed up to meet me, everything went black.

  Chapter 59

  THE STUFFED KANGAROO

  I AWOKE TO a throbbing pain at the base of my skull and a cloth tied around my head, gagging my mouth. Blinking, I tried to take in my surroundings.

  I was seated on a wooden chair with my hands bound behind me, my upper torso strapped to the seat back. I tried to wiggle my shoulders, but the rope was securely fastened.

  From my limited vantage point, I appeared to be surrounded by an open room with walls constructed of the same stone composite as the fence that had bordered the courtyard outside the Larkin House. I was now located, I suspected, inside the stone shed I’d seen earlier on the opposite side of the property.

  The front door to the building opened and the perpetrators of my current predicament entered carrying a large furry brown object. I watched as Frank Napis, still dressed as Clem, held the beast’s shoulders, while Ivan Batrachos, his head shaved bald, hefted the feet. From the snippets of conversation floating in my direction, I gathered the
y’d brought the stuffed creature in from a vehicle parked around the corner.

  “Nothing like a van to haul everything you need,” Napis commented as Ivan righted the kangaroo on the floor about five feet in front of my chair.

  I hadn’t seen Ivan since he’d been apprehended and sent back to prison. His bald head was a shock, and he appeared to be a bit wobbly on his feet. He reached out for the kangaroo’s shoulder as if to steady himself.

  He noticed my open eyes. “Luck whooze back wid us,” he said, his speech noticeably slurred.

  Napis glanced testily at Ivan and then turned to me. “I think you’ll recognize this item,” he said smarmily.

  The stuffed kangaroo looked just like the one I’d found in the Green Vase not long after my uncle’s death. The beast had been located inside a shipping crate lodged over the trapdoor to the basement. The kangaroo’s pouch and mouth cavity had contained clues related to the Leidesdorff spider toxin and tulip extract antidote.

  After all the inspection the kangaroo had received during that caper, I found it hard to believe the dead critter had still more secrets to reveal. But, as I reflected on my earlier conversation with Napis inside the Larkin House, I had to conclude that all clues pointed directly to the kangaroo.

  “Your uncle found the original Bear Flag,” Napis said, rubbing his hands together like a child waiting to open a present. “I know because he sent a letter to the Jackson Square Board asking me to provide an estimate of its value.” Napis clenched his hands into fists. “He was taunting me—he knew I’d been looking for the same treasure for years.”